To carry through Ficino’s argument, killing Kebes was the best thing I could possibly do for him, for the only part of him that was important, his soul. Kebes had demonstrated over and over again that in this life he would turn away from chances to become his best self. He held tight through everything to his narrow Christianity, his supposed love for Simmea, and most of all his hate for the Masters and the City. He refused reason and justice and excellence. He had turned away from all his opportunities. A new life might give him new chances, with less ingrained intransigence.

Most of the arguments the crew made to me were variants on these three. Erinna was entirely pragmatic, asking what would happen to Arete if they took against us and attacked the ship. Maia was extremely Platonic. She told me that Ikaros had raped her when they’d been setting up the city, but she believed he didn’t understand what rape was. She hadn’t told anyone because she didn’t want to cause trouble, so she understood why Simmea hadn’t talked about it.

“When Kebes said I’d personally sanctioned it, I felt as if he’d hit me,” she said. “Those Festivals of Hera. It didn’t give the girls any choice. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“It didn’t give the boys any choice either,” I said, remembering that awful time with Klymene. “Sometimes Plato had an idea that seemed good to him, but just doesn’t work at all when you try it with actual people.”

“But it was a long time ago, and we had sanctioned it—we, the Masters. Me. I had sanctioned it.” Maia was never a coward; she faced her own responsibility squarely. She was pale but she went on. “And Simmea might not have made a complaint because she didn’t want everyone to know. But she didn’t tell you either. You know that means she didn’t want vengeance.” She hesitated, assessing how I was taking it, and then went on. “And Kebes might have learned better since. He seems to be doing good work here. Ikaros understands now. I have forgiven him.”

This was the one argument that made me hesitate. I had learned better since Daphne had turned into a tree. I hadn’t understood what was happening with Daphne. Kebes gave every sign of failing to understand what he had done. But he wasn’t sorry. He had hurt her and gone on when she asked him to stop, and afterward he had insulted her. Now he seemed to have deluded himself again into believing, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, that she was really his. He had named his city after her. He had insisted on knowing whether she’d had a child. He said she loved him. He kept on claiming her, over and over, when in fact she was … her own. (And, yes, all right, mine, but mine because she wanted to be. One of the reasons I hated Kebes was because he was my dark and twisted mirror, and forced me to confront these things. I do try to be just and pursue excellence.)

I struggled to say some of this to Maia. “He didn’t sound as if he has learned better. He wasn’t acting as if he believed she had equal significance and was her own self. He thought he owned her. She wrote that he said that to her at the time, and I believe from what he said today that he still thinks that.”

“But Pytheas, do you truly think it’s just to kill him for thinking that?”

“What is justice, Maia? It took Plato ten books, and it’s taking us decades, and none of us has a proper answer.”

I don’t know what she would have replied, because at that moment Ismene came up, and with her my son. He looked like me, and like his brothers. He was much taller than his mother. She was still pretty. I had never known her well. “Joy to you, Ismene,” I said. Maia turned to greet her.

“This is Fabius,” she said, presenting the boy. He wished me joy gruffly, not knowing where to look. I looked at him, almost as much at a loss. I had met sons before who had been strangers, but they had always known who I was. Should I tell this boy he had a heroic soul? How could I, in front of Maia and his mother? And what could he make of the information in any case? He might not even believe me. It seemed kinder to leave him to make what he could of himself. So we had a limping uncomfortable conversation, and after a little while he and his mother went away together.

“Another son,” Maia said, watching them go.

“I can’t do anything for that one,” I said.

“Oh Pytheas, do you really think you might lose tomorrow?”

“That’s for the gods,” I said. “Are you thinking of going to talk to Kebes to urge him not to kill me if he wins?”

“Yes,” she said, biting her lip. “But as he hates me just as much as he hates you, I can’t imagine it doing much good.”

At sunset Arete insisted everyone leave me to rest before the competition, and she and the boys and I walked off up the beach. She had brought food from the city, roast lamb with herbs and colored eggs for Easter, but wise Neleus had brought dried meat and raisins from the ship which he shared with me. I had brought a jar of wine. We built a fire of driftwood and sat down by it

“You’re not accepting their hospitality, then?” Arete said. “I thought not.”

“They’ll forget the name Lucia,” I said. “This place was called Mithymna.” The sun was sliding into the sea before us, lighting the clouds a thousand shades of red and violet and gold. I looked along the curve of the hill where the moon, two days past full, was due to rise. I opened the wine and took a sip. Neat, it was as sweet as honey, and as strong. I handed it to Kallikles, who was on my right.

Arete looked sideways at Neleus. “I can tell when people are telling the truth,” she said.

Kallikles and Phaedrus looked interested. Neleus grunted, taking the wine. “Useful ability,” I said, carefully.

“Kebes thought he might well win,” she said.

“I noticed that,” I said. “Interesting, isn’t it? He was never known for his musical ability. But he didn’t act as if he was committing suicide, and the Lucians in the crowd didn’t act that way either. He said he had a new instrument. I wonder what it is?”

“What happens if he wins?” Neleus asked, passing the wine on to Phaedrus.

“He kills me, then he’ll get a real surprise when I kill him immediately afterward.” I smiled. I almost wanted it to happen. It would make everything so much simpler.

“Isn’t that cheating?” Kallikles asked.

“He raped Mother!” Neleus said.

“Right, not cheating,” Kallikles said.

“What will you do to him if you win?” Arete said. She was holding the wine jar, but she didn’t drink. Plato said nobody under the age of thirty should drink unmixed wine.

“I’ll cut his throat. Get it over with as fast as possible.”

“Why would he suggest this?” Phaedrus asked. “The winner doing what they want?”

“I expect he wants to torture me to death,” I said.

To my surprise, they were all shocked.

“Kebes hates me,” I explained. “He always has. It’s partly because Simmea loved me, and partly because he hates excellence.” I knew this was right. Simmea had explained it to me.

“How can anyone hate excellence?” Arete asked.

“Ah, you didn’t realize quite what a wound your name was to him?”

“I did, but I thought that was because of Mother choosing it, choosing you and the City and excellence over him and his choices.”

“Yes. That too. But he hates Plato, and all of Plato’s ideas. He said he couldn’t become his best self because his best self would never have been enslaved or brought to the city, and what he had left was revenge.” I remembered him saying it. Kebes was older now, closing on forty like all the Children, but he was still exactly the same as the bull-headed boy he had been that day in the garden at Thessaly. “He wasn’t prepared to go on from where he was and make the best of what he could be. And he hates me because I do pursue excellence, and because Simmea chose me and excellence over him and his idea of freedom.”